


Quest 04: The Battle of Lumbridge

by FictionCookie



Series: Of Gods and Men [4]
Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-07-23 05:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20002750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionCookie/pseuds/FictionCookie
Summary: Now that the gods can return to Gielinor, Saradomin and Zamorak waste little time and return to war once more. This time, Lumbridge is their battlefield. While the battle wages on, Jahaan tries to find out more about the mysterious Mahjarrat who has taken a particular interest in him.





	1. The Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my full series 'Of Gods and Men', and on my page can be read in full (or as far as I've posted). I'm also posting it in smaller chunks as each 'quest' can sort of be standalone, but read as part of a wider story as well.

Despite its fairly large population and wide coverage of land, Lumbridge retained many of the characteristics of a quaint little village. Often regarded by most as the ‘warm heart of Gielinor’, Lumbridge’s buildings were old-fashioned, bright white paint covering the study wooden shell; black cladding was attached for decoration, and the roofs were thatched straw, woven together delicately and with expert craftsmanship. The River Lum weaved its way through the town, dividing it in two. Farmland occupied a lot of the land close to the river, with lucious crop fields and pastures for livestock to roam inside, cared for by the many farmers of the town. One never felt too far from company in the embrace of the Lumbridge community, from the sweet milkmaid Gillie Groats, to Father Aereck, a Saradominist priest inside a small church that stood for over two hundred years, longer than Lumbridge Castle, all the way to the duke himself, Duke Horacio. The duke was a rotund, bubbly gentlemen that took the pride of Lumbridge to heart, using it as a measure of the success of his reign.

Throughout its history, Lumbridge had many problems with goblin raids from western tribes. Fortunately, an unspoken ceasefire was in operation between the humans and their goblin counterparts, though the trice was uneasy, evident by the number of guardsman present on the outskirts of the town. Thanks to the diplomacy of Duke Horacio, peace had been kept thus far.

However, on this day, the tranquil little town of Lumbridge was to be shattered, beyond the realms of a meager goblin raid, and beyond the repair of Horacio’s diplomacy.

This was the day Zamorak returned to Gielinor.

_ A few days earlier... _

After the events that had transpired in Guthix’s cave, Jahaan returned to the Legends’ Guild, hoping those with a little more experience than him might have some wise words, advice, rationalisation - he’d even settle for a limerick. Anything to make sense of what had transpired and, more importantly, where to go next.

Instead, they were a little less calm and collected than what he’d hoped. Many of them simply didn’t believe Jahaan at face value, which was understandable. It’s not every day you hear one of the most powerful gods in Gielinor’s history has been murdered. After a trip to Guthix’s final resting place and a conference with the Guardians of Guthix that had remained there to build a shrine, reality sunk in. Those that did believe Jahaan, or were then shown proof, didn’t take the news all that well.

The Guthixians among them went into mourning, and even those that didn’t worship the deceased deity felt the heavy toll of losing him, especially since one particularly troubling fact hung over them…

...now, the other gods could return to Gielinor.

When Jahaan couldn’t take any more of their worrisome deliberating, he asked if he could take to one of the visitor bunks and try to shift the weight of the day from his shoulders.

_ A good night’s sleep is what I really need, _ he kept telling himself, subtly praying that everything would sort itself out by the morning. Of course, nothing’s as easy as that. Even sleep seemed to be a trial, for every time he closed his eyes, he could see Naragun, the innocent Naragi scattered across the wastelands of their home, and Guthix taking his final breaths on that stone tablet.

_ “Remember your purpose, Jahaan... and please… forget me.” _

Those last words echoed a haunting mantra inside his mind, ceasing to allow him a moment’s peace.

_ That smile… _

In the darkness of his mind, he also saw that smile of Sliske’s, smug and full of malice.

Turning on his side, Jahaan let out a heavy sigh and resigned himself to the fact he wouldn’t get much sleep that night.

Turns out he didn’t get much sleep that night, nor the two nights that followed. The days, also, were very restless. The Guild was chaotic, and Jahaan had taken to spending much of his time wandering aimlessly in the forest between Seer’s Village and the Guild. This, however, was not as relaxing as it sounded.

Every single person Jahaan locked eyes with, he was suspicious of. They could be giving him a pleasant smile or a tip of their hat in greeting, and Jahaan would turn a cold shoulder. When he made it up to the pub in the Village, thinking it’d help clear his mind to knock back a few, the crowded atmosphere only made things ten times worse. Their laughing, chattering… everything set Jahaan on edge, and even the whiskey couldn’t sooth his state of mind. People would sit next to him, and he shot daggers in their direction, unprovoked and unnecessary. His shoulders remained hunched and tense, his hand clasped tightly around the whiskey glass, ready to use it as a weapon at a moment’s notice.

_ “We've met before, but I doubt he remembers me… I've been watching you for quite some time now… I have the feeling our paths are going to cross again very, very soon…” _

The words echoed around Jahaan’s mind like a death rattle.

Orlando had been Sliske in disguise, and Jahaan’s inability to see through such a facade led to Guthix’s death.

It was hard not to feel responsible; he’d been played for a fool.

While he’d first brushed off the ominous words of Sliske at the Ritual Site, he now examined them in a much more serious light, with all the consequences that had followed in the recent days.

_ Who else had Sliske been? _

It was the overarching question of the day. He’d obviously encountered the Mahjarrat before in one of his many disguises, shapeshifting prowess being a natural talent for his kind. Had he been a merchant trying to sell him wares? A soldier in battle? A stranger across from him at the bar?

For all the acquaintances he’d made in his years, Jahaan found himself pouring through each and everyone one of them to see if he could find a hint of Sliske within, all the while pouring more and more whiskey into his system.

In fact, he’d drank so much whiskey that he ended up falling asleep at the bar counter, only to be shaken awoke by a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Jahaan?” the voice was gentle too, a hushed whisper. “Jahaan, it’s time to leave. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Stirring slightly, Jahaan’s neck creaked like an ancient door as he turned to the disruption. The sudden change from darkness to the light of the bar caused an onslaught of double vision, but through blurry eyes, he just about made out the pastel-coloured shape of Ozan leaning over him.

Smiling, Jahaan drawled, “Heyy Ozan… I thought you and Ariane were in East Ardougne. W-Where’s Coal...?”

“We got back this afternoon,” Ozan replied, perching himself on the stool next to Jahaan’s. “Ariane’s babysitting. She loves the little fella. I heard you were down this way, thought I’d join you for a round before the place closes. I think you might have drank all their booze, though.”

Jahaan rubbed his aching temples. “Did they tell you about Guthix?”

“Briefly,” Ozan confirmed, solemnly. “You’ve got a lot to explain once your hangover passes. Come on, let’s get you to sleep.”

“Yes, sleep...” Jahaan mumbled, the world swaying as he slowly rose from the stool. He thanked fate that Ozan had come to find him, since he doubted he’d be able to stagger back to the Guild on his own.

_ Very convenient, _ Jahaan thought to himself. Then, like a matchstick to oil, the thought caught fire, and spread fast.  _ Too convenient… oh gods... _

Jahaan jerked away from Ozan’s hand.  _ How did I not realise before? Ozan never went to the cave, never saw ‘Orlando Smith’... he could have easily become him... _

Looking puzzled, Ozan ventured, “Jahaan? You alright, man?”

The glare Jahaan shot back could have burned through flesh; Ozan flinched, edging backwards ever so slightly. “W-What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Jahaan’s teeth were rattling as he tried to keep composed. It was harder said than done since the effects of the whiskey had far from subsided.

Ozan looked around him, warily. “Uh, yes? It’s me?”

“You might as well drop the disguise. I know it’s you.”

Now, Ozan was utterly baffled, and slightly scared. “Uhh, Jahaan? Gonna need a little more than that. Who do you think I am right now?”

“Sliske,” Jahaan spat the name like it was poison.

Ozan’s brow furrowed; this did not abate his confusion. “The dude from the Ritual Site?”

Suddenly, in the mere blink of an eye, Jahaan shot forward and slammed Ozan into the bar wall behind him, clattering into it with a pained thud. Ozan opened his mouth to protest, but find the words fall lifelessly from his lips with the cold metal of a dagger pressed against his neck.

“You’re not fooling me again,  _ snake _ ,” Jahaan coldly vowed, his red eyes unblinking.

Most of the few remaining patreons swiftly made for the door, though others watched morbidly, their breath bated, eyes full of blood. The bloodlust was shared to Jahaan, who dug the edge of the runite blade slightly deeper into Ozan’s unprotected neck, drawing a thin line of blood as he did so.

Biting back bile that clogged up his throat, Ozan tried to calm his own breathing as he stammered, “Y-You’ve known me since… since we were little tykes! Y-You know I’m not S-Sliske!”

“I only know  _ someone _ ,” Jahaan countered through gritted teeth, “Sliske said he’d been following me for years, disguising himself as others around me, and what better way to do that than to assimilate himself as my ‘best friend’?”

Cursing internally, the fear in Ozan’s eyes grew as he knew Jahaan had a very good point. Now, it seemed that just begging and pleading his innocence wasn’t going to be enough. He had to think, and fast.

Then suddenly - miraculously, more like - it came to him.

“T-The Mahjarrat, you said they could sense each other, right?” Ozan babbled, pressing himself so far into the wall behind him he felt he’d become one with it at any moment. Yet this time, there was light in his eyes, a hope dancing inside the pupils. “Azzanadra! You and me got him out of that pyramid. If I was Sliske, he would have  _ known _ !”

It was Jahaan’s eyes that betrayed him first, the blink of realisation that made him feel sick to the stomach, more so than the whiskey ever could.  _ Oh gods... _

Quickly, Jahaan peeled the dagger off Ozan and stumbled backwards. “Oh gods, you’re right…” he looked heavily up at his friend, age in his features. “Ozan, I…”

Prising himself off the wall, Ozan rubbed away the crimson dribbling down his neck. It had unfortunately already stained his clothing. “You’ve… you’ve had a lot to drink, and a long few days. Let’s… let’s just get back to the Guild.”

Ozan limped out the bar, and Jahaan skulked after him.

From across the room, a blonde man watched them go. He sipped the last remnants of his drink, and smiled.

“Now just tense the string, hold it tight - steady, steady! You’re shaking! You’re gonna kill the cows in the next field at this rate.”

Jahaan slept for most of the next day, waking up only to empty the contents of his stomach and sip delicately at a glass of water. Luckily, once Jahaan had explained himself and apologised profusely for the whole dagger incident, Ozan was inclined to forgive him. He knew his friend well, almost too well, and had learned that alcohol-fueled tempers were rarely personal. This time, with everything that had gone on with Guthix’s death and the poisonous seeds this ‘Sliske’ fellow had planted, it wasn’t much of a surprise that Jahaan hit breaking point like that.

So, to help his friend decompress after the events in the cave, Ozan offered to take Jahaan to the Ranging Guild a little up the pathway to practice his archery.

“Ego’s the only reason I came out of that fight with Zemouregal unscathed,” Jahaan had gravely explained, “Next time, he might wisen up and use magic, so I need to get better at a long-range combat style, and fast.”

Being renowned as one of the best archer’s in all of Gielinor, Jahaan thought he couldn’t be in better hands than Ozan’s when it came to this. It came so naturally to Ozan - his bow was like a third arm. Translating that to Jahaan was…  _ difficult _ .

Granted, Jahaan wasn’t  _ bad _ , by no means. Almost all of his arrows had hit the target, and a couple even got dead centre.

“OZAN!” the sharp, alarming cry startled Jahaan, causing his arrow to embed in the fence post to the side of the target, a good two feet from the mark.

Snapping around, the two men saw a young lad huffing and gasping for air, bright red in the face. “Urgent. Guild. Come now!” was all he managed to choke out before his throat gave up.

Exchanging worried glances, Ozan and Jahaan picked up their supplies before rushing back to the Guild.


	2. Chaos Theory

For darkness, there is light. For evil, there is goodness. For chaos, there is order.

For those that believed in the stark black and white of this world, they would say ‘for Zamorak, there is Saradomin’.

Saradomin was the most widely worshipped god on all of Gielinor, standing as the god of order, wisdom and light. His followers would also characterise him as the ‘god of goodness’, but those who were not fooled by all the propaganda would see that he exists in shades of grey. Though it is true that Saradomin is largely benevolent and strives to do things he regards as ‘righteous’, he is far from the personification of ‘good’ that his followers might have you believe. Indeed, he is relentless and ruthless in pursuit of his goals, often toting that the ends justify the means. His followers are almost fanatically loyal to him, no doubt blissfully unaware of his darker side. The Saradominist propaganda department was incredibly impressive.

Then, to contrast the supposed ‘god of order’, there was Zamorak, god of chaos. Once a Mahjarrat, Zamorak usurped his previous master, Zaros, and in doing so, ascended to godhood.

Although Zamorak is considered as a mystical infatuation of chaos by his followers, he is seen as an evil god by his rivals and their followers. However, there has been a great deal of historical ignorance with respect to the humans of Gielinor who got influenced by Saradomin. It’s true, many would have to jump far beyond their own shadow in order to deal with the foundations of Zamorak’s beliefs, but once examined closely, he is not the deity of evil so many would believe him to be. His teachings state that self-improvement, greatness, strength and purpose are brought by chaos, whereas order and constancy supposedly lead to stagnation of society, and this was ultimately the reason he turned away from the Zarosian Empire. He does not condone violence for the sake of violence, nor does he wish for the mass-slaughter of any race or religion of Gielinor, instead wanting them to liberate themselves and become truly free.

No, contrary to popular belief, things weren’t always as clear cut as they seem for the deities of Gielinor, especially when morality became a factor.

But nevertheless, the Saradominist/Zamorakian rivalry was fierce and relentless, each side desperate to do anything to make the heads of their enemies roll.

The portal in the centre of Lumbridge, right next to the canoe station, had appeared out of nowhere, a black hole punched into the air. The general response was one of apprehension and fear, although a handful took to worshipping it.

They were simple people, the Lumbridge folk.

It didn’t take long before the portal expanded, ripping through the world like it was tearing through cotton. With it, it brought darkness to the skies, turning the bright blue and crystal clear day into an overcast mess, with black ink pouring out from the portal.

Then, out from the black, Zamorak emerged.

Towering over the miniscule little buildings beneath him, Zamorak stood almost as high as Lumbridge Castle itself. Red appendages stuck out from his grey face like branches on fire, the colours matching his red and black cloak, broken up at the shoulders by black and gold plates. His symbol, something that resembled a pointed ‘W’, was woven into his robes. Dark crimson wings stretched outwards as he took in the brisk air with a contented sigh, cracked his knuckles, and sneered. “I’m back, bitches.”

Zamorak stomped through the town, master and commander of all he surveyed. At least he was courteous enough not to tread on any actual people, though a few fences felt his wrath.

Then, a pulse of blue energy at his back stopped him dead in his tracks, though the meagre blast was more of an irritation than an attack.

“Who dares?!” he whipped around, and his eyes looked down at a tiny little Saradomin glaring up at him with a challenging upturn to his mouth. Sniffing a laugh, he greeted, “Old Saradomin… come to tell me you’ve missed me?”

“Yours is a sight I’ve enjoyed living without,” Saradomin grew to the same size an Zamorak, matching his fiery stare with one of his own. “I’ve come to finish what was started all those years ago, now Guthix can no longer interrupt us.”

“Game on,” Zamorak teleported to one end of Lumbridge, while Saradomin whisked away to the other. They seemed oblivious to the people scurrying below them, ants in comparison, not even sure where shelter would be in the presence of two gods that could turn a house to dust in an instant. No, Saradomin and Zamorak’s gazes were firmly locked on one another, a rivalry everlasting, eternal until one of them was cast into the abyss. Thousands of years of fighting, millions of lives lost…

...now, they were gearing up for round two.

It was a standoff, a tense silence of scowls and clenched fists, onlookers awaiting the first move with terrified, bated breath.

Suddenly, Zamorak cast a surge of energy his foe’s way, the first move, sending the dominos falling. Saradomin countered with one of his own, and the two blasts collided mid-air with such velocity and power that the explosion and subsequent shockwave it produced decimated the centre of Lumbridge, turning it to rubble in an instant. Even the western side of the duke’s castle shattered.

When the dust settled, the sky had turned a sickly green colour, looming over the ruins of the once lovely little town. Everyone too close to the epicentre of the colliding powers felt the full effects of godly magic. Even those further away did not leave unscathed, being thrown back in the wave that followed the clash.

The two gods glared daggers into one another, teeth bared and dripping venom. Then, from out of nothing more than the rocks, dirt and rubble beneath them, they pulled up barricades around themselves, shaping hardened battlements.

With a cackle and a wash of flames, a young woman teleported in front of Zamorak, her skin a twisted blend of human and iron coloured scales. Her eyes glowed magenta, matching the short and flowing dress she sported underneath sparse golden armour.

At the same time, a flash of white lighting hit the ground, revealing an icyene warrior after the glow faded out. When they spread their wings to reveal themselves, Commander Zilyana stood resolute.

Then, from both sides, White and Black Knights teleported in front of their respective gods, legions of them.

“FOR ZAMORAK!” the woman at Zamorak’s side roared, unleashing her troops into combat, charging towards their White Knight counterparts. Zilyana ordered her troops to advance, and the two opposing sides met in the ruins of Lumbridge centre, erupting into battle.

Hours had already passed by the time Jahaan, Sir Owen, Ozan and company had made it to Lumbridge. Once they received word, the Saradominists among them sprung into life, snatching their weapons and throwing on their armour for the chance to fight in the presence of their god. Ozan, Jahaan and the Guthixians (like Ariane) were a little more hesitant to rush into battle for gods that weren’t their own. However, knowing it was important to make themselves useful at such a time, they teleported to Lumbridge with them regardless.

Sir Amik Vaze met them at the Saradominist base to the north of the city; the mill had been converted into a makeshift base of operations. They arrived under the shadow of Saradomin, darkness cast over them from his overbearing presence. Jahaan looked up and saw Saradomin’s piercing gaze staring off across the battlefield. When he followed them, they met Zamorak, who was a spectacle of crimson and black at the far end of the town.

“Sir Owen, good to see you,” Sir Amik greeted, his helmet underneath his arm.

“And you, Sir Amik,” Sir Owen returned. “I trust you’ve managed to gather our forces without resistance?”

“Of course. The White Knights and Temple Knights came instantly. Those spread out across Gielinor have all confirmed they are en route.”

Sir Amik led the small group over to a map of Lumbridge stretched out across the long table, weighed down by cutlery holders and sugar bags.

“This is the crater,” he pointed to the centre of the town. “It has green divine energy emitting from its core. While not confirmed by the Lord himself, the working theory is that it’s leftover lifeforce from Guthix. It’s increasing Saradomin’s power, and so he has asked us to deliver it to him. The Zamorakians, unfortunately, have the same idea.”

“Then that must be top priority,” Sir Owen asserted.

“What about the civilians?” Jahaan pressed, “ _ They _ should be the priority. Are they being evacuated?”

“Yes, those east of the Lum have been allowed refuge in Al Kharid, though it's been a little tense at the border. West of the Lum is slightly more difficult. Draynor isn't responding to our correspondence. We're setting up camps in the north west to avoid an incident.”

Ozan shook his head, disappointed. “Why am I not surprised.”

Then, he straightened up his jacket and made for the door. “Jahaan, you coming?”

“Yep, let's go,” Jahaan agreed, following him out.

Puzzled, Sir Owen chased after him. “Where do you think you're going?”

Calmly, Ozan replied, “Home. I'm not fighting your wars. I'll help my people.”

Gobsmacked, Sir Owen growled, “And what of you, Jahaan? We need fighters! Didn’t Guthix make you a ‘world guardian’, or something? Well, do your duty - guard the world and fight for the glory of our lord!”

“Hey, he’s YOUR lord, not mine,” Jahaan returned, though with slightly less composure than Ozan. “I'll do my part, but I don't owe your god a damn thing.”

Ozan gave Ariane a sheepish little wave, who returned the motion with a heart-melting smile. Coal, ever to ruin the moment, hopped off Ariane’s shoulder and lept into Ozan’s arms, who squeezed him tightly.

“I’ll take good care of him,” Ariane assured, motioning for Coal to return to her.

Without another word, Jahaan and Ozan made for the Al Kharid border, which wasn't too far from the eastern edge of town. 

It was miraculous how the bizarre climate of Gielinor operated; within one's eyesight, they could see the lush grasslands of Lumbridge transition into the sandy deserts of the Kharidian Lands. However, they weren't always deserts. No, during the Second Age, the Kharidian Lands were as full of life as anywhere, all until the battle that settled the wars in the region for the rest of the God Wars. That was the battle where Tumeken, leader of the Menaphite Pantheon and God of the Sun, sacrificed himself and his armies to push back the Zarosian forces once and for all. The explosion that occurred destroyed the land, turning it into a barren wasteland that would never recover. The shockwave stretched all the way from Uzer to the southern shores of Menaphos.

The climate never recovered, and the temperature increase as one left Lumbridge towards Al Kharid was unmistakable. 

Fortunately, the two men had kept ahold of their identity papers throughout their travels, making passage through the border a lot easier. Ozan was well known among the authorities of Al Kharid, for better or for worse, which acted as a passport in its own right. Jahaan, on the other hand, was as much of an outsider as the next guy. During peace times, this wouldn’t be an issue, as anyone can pay the border fee and enter the city. During a conflict, however, they didn’t just let any random bloke with a pair of swords into the city, regardless of the origins of their name or the complexion of their skin.

There was a queue separating them from the border, with refugees from Lumbridge trying to make their passage into the city. Predominantly, they were women, and a few men looking a little worse for wear.

When they made it to the front, Ozan handed his identity papers to the guard that beckoned him over. “ _ Marhabaan _ , Fahri, long time!”

The guard looked at his papers closely, a wry smile on his face. “ _ Marhabaan _ . Been a while, Ozan. Causing trouble for the other kingdoms, have you?”

“I like to share myself around,” Ozan winked at him.

Fahri rolled his eyes. “We’ve already filled up two folders on you. Please don’t make me have to buy a third.”

Grinning, Ozan exclaimed, “You’ve been keeping a full record! I want to read this! Nostalgia purposes, and all.”

Handing the documents back, Fahri replied, “If you want to know what’s in your file, just think back to all the shit you did that you know you shouldn’t have done, and write it down. You’ll need a lot of papyrus.”

Then, his eye caught a look at Jahaan, who was having trouble dealing with the border guard across the way. Squinting, he ventured, “Jahaan? Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut?”

Looking for salvation in the familiar voice, Jahaan glanced around for its origins and settled on Fahri, relief spreading across his tired features. “Fahri? Is that you?”

Grinning, Fahri cheered, “How long has it been, my friend?”

“Too long,” Jahaan admitted with a sad smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

“And you. Are you having an issue, here?” Fahri looked over to the border guard Jahaan was dealing with, posing the question to him more than anything else.

With an open hand, the guard motioned at Jahaan’s rune armour. “He looks like a knight to me. He’s armed like one too. We’ve been told no knights.”

Crinkling his brow, Fahri turned to Jahaan and inquired, “You are dressed very well. Are you a knight?”

“Nada,” Jahaan replied, before correcting with a wince, “Well, I almost was, but they turned me down. The armour was compensation for the trouble. There was a battle, Mahjarrat rituals, long story. I’d love to tell you the whole thing over a drink later on, but right now, Ozan and I just want to do our part and help out the medics.”

Shrugging, Fahri turned to the border guard and said, “He’s a citizen of Menaphos, and I believe him when he said he’s not a knight. Let him in.”

Smiling gratefully, Jahaan assured the drink offer wasn’t just bluster, and they agreed to catch up after Fahri’s shift ended at sundown.

“May Het be with you, friends,” Fahri said as they passed through into the warm embrace of Al Kharid.

Al Kharid was the only desert kingdom that wasn’t separated by water from Misthalin, the kingdom Lumbridge resided in. In fact, despite their only being a mere fence between the two cities, they might as well have been separate planets for all the similarities they shared. Al Kharid was ruled by the Emir, although the vast majority of the work has been taken over by Chancellor Hassan ever since the Emir's son was kidnapped. Whilst being independent from Misthalin was a given, Al Kharid was notable for being the only city in the desert that did not kowtow to the Menaphos rulers, unlike the rest of the Khandarin Desert. Naturally, this friction erupted into a bitter war in the early Fifth Age, lasting decades. Fortunately, a peace agreement was established to protect the people and prosperity of both cities, and thus the free movement of all desert residents was permitted. Al Kharid was also the last city in the Khandarin Desert to be established, being built in the last years of the Fourth Age by settlers from the Southern Kharidian Desert. One important similarity that united all of the Khandarin Desert - with Al Kharid being no exception - is that the dominant religion was the Menaphite Pantheon. Most of the citizens of Al Kharid took to worshipping the demigod, Het, the god of health and fortitude.

While Al Kharid sent no soldiers to fight in the battle of Saradomin and Zamorak, they had agreed to help the refugees fleeing the destruction, and tend to the wounded on all sides, regardless of religion or politics. It came from the teachings of Het instilled in the residents of Al Kharid, meaning they had the desire to help and heal all that they could without hesitation. A noble people, and values Jahaan and Ozan both shared. It was the reason they decided to return to Al Kharid, to tend to the wounded. Both men knew field medicine, and felt a patriotic pull towards tending to the injured over taking up arms for gods they didn’t support.

After venturing through the bustling crowds of residents and refugees alike, they made it to the crucible of activity, the place where people seemed to be either marching towards or returning from.

From the last time he was in Al Kharid, Jahaan recollected there being a market square right about where he was standing, where the tradesmen would shill everything from silk to gemstones, pots to bowls, and LOTS of waterskins, always handy for desert travel. Now, however, it’d been converted into a makeshift military hospital, with canopies and tents stretching almost to the city walls of the western end of Al Kharid. They were still rather close to the border gate, with people being stretchered past them sickenly often.

Blood stained nurses and franctic surgeons dashed past them to run to the nearest scream or wail, carrying instruments and soaking rags as they did. Jahaan caught the eye of one woman in particular, her eyes bloodshot and red, empty of all life yet full of the desperate drive to keep going, to deliver the potions she was transporting to her next patient, to work until she collapsed from the sheer exhaustion of it all.

It was evident that they were short staffed; Jahaan noticed a few people that looked like regular merchants and priests donning protective gloves too, helping out wherever they could.

“I’m going to find the surgeon general, or anyone who can point us to where to begin,” Ozan announced, disappearing into the masses.

Jahaan was patiently awaiting his return when, from the corner of his eye, he saw people rushing towards the border as the sound of shouts and clattering built to a crescendo. The ruckus blended together the Common Tongue and the Menaphite Language quite roughly, a jagged mix of curse words and obscenities.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he went to investigate.

Crowds had gathered around the border gate, but they gave the commotion a wide berth. When he weaved through the crowds and made it to the fence, he saw four White Knights waving a piece of paper in front of one of the border guards’ faces, yelling, “These are my orders and you’re going to damn well carry them out! Do you understand me?”

“I’m not doing anything for you,  _ effendi _ ,” the guard, Fahri, spat the courteous title like it was bile in his mouth. “We’ve taken in your woman, your children and your injured. My orders are to let no knights through this gate.”

The White Knight squared up to Fahri, towering over him by a good few inches. For his part, Fahri didn’t act phased. “You listen to me,  _ effendi  _ \- if Saradomin wants Al Kharid, he’s going to get it, even if we have to take it for him. All we want is a base, to protect you from the Zamorakians. Isn’t that what you want? Am I speaking in simple enough terms for you? These are orders from Saradomin himself!”

“I understand, but do you know where Saradomin’s jurisdiction stops?” Fahri smiled smugly. “This gate.”

Apparently, this was the final straw for the knight, who pushed Fahri back into the fence with such power that he almost toppled over it. The other three guards readied their scimitars for combat, while the knights drew their own longswords.

This was enough for Jahaan, who hopped the fence and demanded, “Hey, is there a problem here?”

Picking himself him, Fahri turned to Jahaan and calmly assured, “Ease, Jahaan. We have this under control.”

“Yeah, back off, sandboy,” the knight sneered, his hand on the hilt of his own weapon.

“What did you just call me?!” Jahaan charged up to the knight now, staring him with fire in his eyes.

“You heard me,” the knight rounded on Jahaan, looking him up and down. “Whose corpse did you steal that armour from anyway?”

“I’ll get my next set from you if you don’t fuck off right now.”

The knights all snickered, taking a few steps back from their leader, creating a ring around the two.

Their leader’s smirk was a challenge, his eyes an insult. “You sandboys are all the same. Scrappy and foolhardy. Walk away before you get yourself hurt.”

With a clenched fist, Jahaan leaned closer to the knight, his voice a blade. “Call me ‘sandboy’ one more time. I dare you.”

“Or what?”

“Just… do it.”

Looking around at his fellow knights, who’s looks egged him on even further, the knight turned back to Jahaan and started, “Sandb-”

But before he could finish the last syllable, Jahaan whipped his dagger out at lightning speeds and slashed the man’s throat. Lightning couldn’t have moved as fast. Those that blinked would have missed the action, left only to see the wide-eyed knight clutching desperately at his throat as blood streamed through his fingertips. Within seconds, he fell to his knees, and finally the ground, a puddle of crimson pulsing from his neck, his body convulsing sporadically until it stopped moving all together.

Jahaan watched him fall with cold eyes. Then, he calmly put the still-dripping dagger back in its sheath, and drew one of his swords as he turned to the remaining, terrified knights.

With a sigh, he stretched out the kinks in his neck and readied his stance, inviting his first contender.

“Jahaan!” a wild voice called out from behind him, but Jahaan’s gaze never wavered.

When the voice called again, it was much closer now. There was a brief murmur in the crowd, and then the next thing he knew, Ozan appeared in front of him, standing delicately between him and the knights.

If he saw Ozan, it didn’t register on his features; his deathly glare was locked onto the three knights, a cool as the blade he was holding, ready for blood.

“Jahaan, I thought we pushed past this,” Ozan whimpered, holding out his arms in a desperate effort to keep the knights and his friend at bay. When he looked closer into Jahaan’s hollow eyes, however, he noticed they were staring right through him, like he wasn’t even there.

“Jahaan,” he repeated with increased urgency. “Jahaan, look at me. Jahaan.”

A brief, fleeting glance in Ozan’s direction.  _ Progress _ .

“He just murdered a Saradominist commander!” one of the knights exclaimed, but there was a slight waver in his voice. “H-He’s coming with us to answer for his crimes!”

Ozan glared through the knight, his voice deadly serious as he replied, “Try it. Each and every person here will take up arms before they allow you to hang one of our own. You’re outnumbered, effendi.”

The remaining knights looked to the crowds behind Ozan and Jahaan, and everyone they saw might as well have had a pitchfork in their hands, because they’d nailed the angry mob look to a tee. The border guards, Fahri included, saw no objection to fighting the knights to protect Jahaan, tightening the grip on his scimitar.

“Gather your man and go fight your war,” Ozan continued, quietly. “This can be dealt with later.”

Two of the knights looked to their new would-be commander for approval, and when they got it, they picked up the corpse and edged backwards, careful not to startle the mob or the angry men with scimitars as they did so.

“We’ll be back, and your man will pay!” the would-be commander shouted as soon as they were a safe enough distance away. Then, they hurried back to their camp, their tail tucked rather neatly between their legs.

Ozan felt his whole body relax with the relief of it all. However, Jahaan had yet to recover. He still had that same empty glare in his eyes, the tightness in his lips, the firm grip on his sword; it was fight or flight, and from experience, Ozan knew that unless his friend was grounded soon, things could only get worse.

“Jahaan. It’s me, Ozan. They’re gone. It’s okay now,” Ozan’s voice was soft, reassuring. “Do you know what you just did, Jahaan? You slit a man’s throat. A White Knight’s throat.”

Jahaan’s breathing changed ever so slightly.

“Jahaan, let’s look at this seriously, okay?” Ozan tried to keep his friend lucid, tried to make him see the gravity of the situation. “You just murdered a Saradominist knight. You could be hung for this. Do you understand?”

Jahaan was blinking more now, his breathing starting to become slightly slower. “I just-”

“No no,” Ozan returned to the task at hand. “Murder. Execution. YOU.”

Finally, Jahaan’s eyes met Ozan’s, and they melted with realisation. “ _ Ya alqarf _ .”

Ozan’s shoulder’s sagged with relief; he had his friend back. “Yes, ‘oh shit’. Indeed, ‘oh shit’. We need to hide you in the desert. Come, quickly.”

The two hopped back over the border and made a break for the bank, knowing there was no way they’d survive the desert heat with all Jahaan was wearing. Even runite armour has its limits. Quickly undressing down to his undershirt and black trousers, Jahaan handed over the set to the banker, alongside his shieldbow and quiver of arrows, and one of his two shortswords, after providing his account name and bank PIN. Unphased, the dead-eyed banker took his armour without word, a world-weary look about him and an unspoken sigh in every breath. With a wave of his hand, the armour was teleported away to wherever items go to when banked. Jahaan didn’t really pay attention to any economics lessons growing up, so how the bank actually worked was beyond him.

_ Let’s just say magic and leave it at that, _ pretty much summed up his feelings on the matter.

Withdrawing a few more waterskins he’d deposited ages ago, Jahaan handed them to Ozan to fill up at the fountain across the way. He also withdrew a little more pocket change and a cowl to protect his neck from the beating sun.

But something was eating away at the back of his mind, and he couldn’t let it go.

With a reluctant sigh, Jahaan called out, “Ozan, you can’t go to the desert.”

Puzzled, Ozan turned around and, with a hint of urgency as he looked towards the border gate in the distance, responded, “What are you talking about? You can’t stay here right now. They could come back any minute!”

“That’s not what I said,” Jahaan clarified, softly. “I have to go, but you don’t. Al Kharid is your home, these are your people… you know you want to stay and help them. I couldn’t let myself take that opportunity away from you.”

Ozan may be a man of the world, a jack of all trades and a friend of all peoples, but despite his cavalier attitude to life and his tendency to flit from one town to another in a heartbeat, Jahaan knew how much the chance to give back to his home city meant to Ozan. He’d never say it aloud, but Jahaan knew regardless. Despite the drunken bust-up in Seers’ Village - to which Jahaan still felt overwhelming embarrassment - he did know his best friend, better than anyone.

The softening of Ozan’s eyes told him everything he needed to know, and the man broke out into a sad smile. Handing back his waterskins to Jahaan, Ozan pulled the man into a tight  _ (but manly, totally manly)  _ embrace.

“Will you go to Menaphos?” Ozan queried, releasing his hold.

Shrugging, Jahaan replied, “I… I don’t know. It’s been so long… I have a friend I want to pay a visit to first, in Nardah. After that… who knows?”

“And when do you think you’ll be back?”

“At least a week, maybe two. If they come for me, tell them the truth, that I went into the desert. They’d be idiots to follow.”

Ozan sniffed a chuckle. “They’d be dead in a day.”

The two said their goodbyes, parting amicably, knowing in their heart of hearts it was the right decision to make.

But before he could get too far, Ozan called out, “Hey Jahaan, one last thing.”

Turning around, Jahaan motioned for Ozan to continue.

Grinning, Ozan said, “Saradomin or Zamorak. Loser buys the rounds. Fahri’s too.”

Thinking for a brief moment, Jahaan decided, “Saradomin. By sheer force of forehead, Sir Owen will not lose.”

“Guess I’m Zammy then. Long live chaos!”

“For order!”


	3. Over To Nardah

The Kharidian Desert was a vast land found south of the wooded kingdom of Misthalin and Morytania. The desert was the home to some of the oldest civilisations in Gielinor, ranging from the Menaphites that built the cities of Ullek and Uzer, to the bandits that are almost all that remain of the followers of Zaros. As a result, it is amongst the most history-rich and treasure-filled areas in the world. It is this that has attracted so many archaeologists and explorers to the area, but not without consequence. Here the scorching desert winds blasted the sand, turning the dunes into a sea. The blazing sun watched tirelessly from the sky, slowly draining the life of all that walks beneath it. The vultures circled overhead, eating the corpses of those that the desert bested, and packs of starving wolves searched endlessly for prey, their hunger never sated. Many have entered the desert, never to return.

Indeed, the Kharidian Desert has earned its reputation as dangerous, merciless, and unyielding, especially to those who underestimated it.

Because he did not have a deathwish, Jahaan took a magic carpet ride to Nardah, happy to pay the pricey fee over the alternatives, which included, but were not limited to: a camel ride with a rather surly camel, or one that dabbles in bad romantic poetry; riding in the back of a cart, potentially in a barrel (he’d seen a man transporting a woman in a barrel the last time he crossed the desert, but was certain it was a mirage… potentially… it was up for debate); or walking it. That last one… was tricky. He’d traversed the desert on foot before, leaving Menaphos on foot and, over a period of months, with a lot of pit stops at hydrated cities, made it all the way to Al Kharid.

It was not an experience he cared to repeat.

Now that magic carpets were a thing that even he could afford, he hopped on gladly, thankful that the breeze from the motion took over from the chokingly humid desert air that would fill his lungs with sand. He didn’t exactly understand how these carpet rides worked, how they knew where to go without a driver, how they avoided all obstacles in their path, so Jahaan just accepted the answer of ‘because magic’ and left it at that.

It took only a few hours before the carpet landed safely at Nardah. When Jahaan stepped off, his body still felt like it was moving, his head swirling, and it made him feel rather dizzy. This proved most notable when he tried to walk in a straight line and veered distinguishably to the left, much to the amusement of the magic carpet operator.

Now he had the tricky task of remembering which house was the right one.

It had been a couple of years since he’d last been in Nardah, but thankfully the city hadn’t changed all that much in the meantime. Previously, during his first excursion through the town, it was experiencing a severe drought. Many believed this was due to a curse placed upon the city by the goddess, Elidinis, who founded the city in the first place, and felt betrayed when a Saradominist preacher convinced the residents to worship the blue lord over her. Thankfully, this curse had been reversed in the meantime, and Nardah was hydrated and prosperous once more. Nevertheless, the city still appeared dilapidated and old, almost like a ruin, with many of the sandstone buildings crumbling.

Due to their near identical nature, it was hard to remember just exactly where the house he was looking for was located.

_ On the outskirts, past the fountain, not THAT fountain… I think it was to the west of the library… was this statue here the last time I came through? _

The internal mumblings in Jahaan’s mind did not echo confidence, and he grew more and more frustrated as he passed the same smither’s workshop three times.

Eventually, he gave up, feeling like a defeated tourist, and asked for directions from some of the locals. At least then he was going in the right direction.

Finally, he arrived at the quaint little building he sought, a ornamental plaque hung from a nail on the door confirming this.

Jahaan knocked twice on the sturdy door, hearing the deep echo the contact of his knuckles made against the wood and noted it as a sign of good craftsmanship. It was a new addition to his humble abode.

Moments later, the door was prised open, and Ali the Wise greeted Jahaan with a pleasant smile and a humanoid appearance. “Jahaan! I did not know I would be seeing you so soon. Please, come in.”

“Wahisietel,” Jahaan greeted, walking through into his friend’s living room. The place hadn’t changed much since the last time he had passed through, though the book collection had, miraculously, increased tenfold. He’d also splashed out on a new set of bookshelves to match the lovely oak door, and even a new set of pots for the kitchen.

“Sit down, allow me to make you some tea,” Wahisietel offered, motioning to the cushioned chairs. As he busied himself in the kitchen, Jahaan meekly called out, “I know you’re a Mahjarrat, Wahisietel,” he reminded, saying, “you don’t have to stay in the disguise on my account.”

Shaking his head, Wahisietel pointed out, “Mahjarrat are not very welcome in these parts. What if a neighbour happened to nose around my windows, hm? Besides, I’m rather comfortable in my Ali form.”

Soon afterwards, he set down a tray on the table containing two cups of herbal tea and a plate of cream-filled biscuits. Thanking him, Jahaan made for a tasty looking circular one.

“So,” Wahisietel took a sip from the boiling liquid. The word was more of a suggestion for input rather than an intent to begin a discussion of his choosing. Wahisietel knew Jahaan came here for a specific reason to get something off his mind. They didn’t call him ‘Ali the Wise’ for nothing.

Eventually, Jahaan spoke up. “Have you talked to Azzanadra?” he tried not to allow his wince to come through. The fact that Wahisietel hadn’t slammed the door in his face was a promising sign, but he still fretted internally.

Nodding gravely, Wahisietel danced around the matter with delicacy. “I did. He took… a while to calm down.”

“And you’re not mad at me because…?” Jahaan left the hole open for Wahisietel to enlighten him.

With a light chuckle, Wahisietel replied, “I am not as fervent with my beliefs as our beloved Pontifex; he took you disobeying Zaros’ wishes as a personal affront. I, on the other hand, am of sound mind. You’re entitled to whatever path you choose.”

Feeling relief wash over him like a tsunami, Jahaan relaxed back in his chair. “Well, at least that’s one Mahjarrat I haven’t pissed off lately.”

“Speaking of which,” Wahisietel leaned forward in his chair. “Azzanadra told me that Sliske was the one that dealt the killing blow, and that you were there to witness it. He didn’t try to kill you, however?”

“No. He tricked me into leading him straight to Guthix, betrayed me at the last second, then teleported away.”

“That sounds like Sliske.”

Jahaan bit his lip, putting his head in his hands with a frustrated sigh. It would be the perfect time to tell Wahisietel why he was really here, why he’d traveled halfway across the desert to drop in unannounced for more than lovely tea and polite conversation.

It was just… where to start? Without sounding crazy, that was.

“About Sliske…” Jahaan stretched out the creases in his neck, scratching at the back of his head and giving a long, drawn out sigh, delaying the inevitable as he did so. “Back at the Ritual Site, he said he’d been watching me for some time now. The fact that he fooled me by posing as an archeologist to get to Guthix… it got to me. I’ve been feeling rather paranoid ever since. There was… an incident…”

Wahisietel raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but Jahaan did not care to elaborate, instead saying, “I didn’t really take his words seriously before, but after Guthix’s death, and my role in it… I shouldn’t have brushed him off so lightly. I have no idea why he’s following me. I was hoping, as his brother-”

“Half-brother,” Wahisietel was quick to correct.

“ _ Half _ -brother,” Jahaan emphasised. “I was hoping you’d have some insight as to why.”

Taking a long, thoughtful sip of his tea, Wahisietel decided it needed more sugar, and thus added another cube.

“Hmm,” he said as he enjoyed the sweet liquid, his brow well and truly furrowed. “I fear you may have misunderstood my relationship with my half-brother. Familial bonds have not tied us close. I do not know why he would have such a vested interest in you in particular. Had his speech about ‘watching you’ occurred after you became the World Guardian, then that I could understand - he would be interested in your power, your potential - but as it stands… I’m afraid I’m at a loss.”

Shoulders sagging, Jahaan slumped back in his chair, burying his head in his hands. “Terrific.”

“I’m sorry,” Wahisietel weekly apologised, a light chuckle teasing his lips. “I can tell you’re less than impressed with the wisdom I’ve been unable to impart.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jahaan forced himself to smile. “I just… I feel like he’s all around me, you know? It’s haunting.”

“Well, if he’s any consolation, he’s nowhere near Nardah now.”

Jahaan felt relief wash over him. “Really?”

“Really,” Wahisietel assured. “Enakhra and Akthanakos occasionally come near enough that I can feel their presence, but right now, no Mahjarrat are nearby.”

“Enakhra’s probably off fighting for Zamorak…”

It was an off the cuff remark, but boy, did that require some explaining, and another helping of tea and biscuits. Turns out that, while knowing that Saradomin had returned, and assuming that Zamorak was close behind, he didn’t realise they were engaged in conflict at this very second.

Both Jahaan and the Mahjarrat were thankful they were far, FAR away from Lumbridge right about now.

Once the conversation rounded back on track, Jahaan finally asked another one of the burning questions he’d originally come for, “I know the Mahjarrat can sense each other and all, but is there any way I can tell if Sliske’s around? I need something to help this paranoia.”

The look on Wahisietel’s face was not encouraging. “Not particularly. When shapeshifted into a human disguise, Mahjarrat can do everything you humans can, like eat, drink… everything we need to pass off as one of your kind. To your limited human senses, we radiate no magic, either.”

Just as Jahaan was about to give up hope, Wahisietel piped up, “There is one thing… Jahaan, humour me, and touch the space between your eyes.”

Crinkling his brow, it wasn’t until Wahisietel insisted further that Jahaan did as he was told, feeling silly as he did so.

“What do you notice?” Wahisietel inquired, rhetoricism obvious in his tone.

“Uhh… nothing?”

“Exactly. Now, touch the same spot between my eyes.”

Wahisietel leaned forward, and instinctively, Jahaan leaned backwards. After Wahisietel repeated the request, Jahaan just about forced his hand to cooperate, feeling very awkward as he did so. As soon as he made contact, he pulled his hand back with a gasp.

It was near boiling to the touch. “Whoa.”

Placing two fingers between his eyes, Wahisietel explained, “This is where the Mahjarrat’s crystal is embedded in our foreheads. No matter what disguise we undertake, if the skin at this area is thin enough - which, on a human form, it is - you will be able to feel the heat from the crystal.

Granted, the idea of touching everyone he suspected of being a Mahjarrat on the forehead didn’t exactly feel Jahaan with glee, it was certainly better than nothing. “Thanks, Wahisietel. I really appreciate it.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Wahisietel quickly shot up from his chair and hurried over to one of his many bookshelves. “After our last meeting, I set something aside for you, something that might give you an unbiased, third party perspective on my half-brother,” after half a minute’s searching, he pulled out a thin blue-spined book. Blowing dust from the cover, he handed it carefully over to Jahaan, who took it very delicately, aware of how torn and damaged both the spine and cover were.

“How old is this book?” Jahaan couldn’t even make out the writing on the front, it was so faded.

“It’s an original, from the Second Age,” Wahisietel replied.

Aware of the fragility and, with this new information, rarity and subsequent value of the book, Jahaan held it like a newborn, very gently opening it up to the first page. When he did, his eyes began to hurt as they tried to register the symbols on the page. Squinting, he began to say, “Um, Wahisietel…”

Smiling softly, Wahisietel replied, “It is written in the ancient Menaphosi script. I did not think you would be versed in such an outdated language, so I translated the relevant sections of the book. Go to the marked page.”

Seeing the tip of a feather jutting from near the middle of the book, Jahaan turned to it, relieved to see pieces of papyrus tucked inside, all written in the Common Tongue. Removing them, he gently handed the book back to Wahisietel and shuffled the pages into order.

Blinking, he read aloud, “The Book of Sliske?”

Nodding with a disappointed grimace, Wahisietel said, “It’s written by a mercenary of Icthlarin’s called Gram Kobold, who later became a prominent commander in his armies. There are many accounts of the Mahjarrat’s arrival on Gielinor, but his focused almost obsessively on my half-brother. I thought it might be of some interest to you.”

Tucking the papyrus away in his pocket, Jahaan replied, “Thanks, Wahisietel. I owe you one.”

“You owe me nothing,” Wahisietel assured. “After your assistance in dispatching Lucien, it is the least I could do.”

After leaving Wahisietel’s humble abode, he made for the nearest inn, wanting to take residence there for the night. While he definitely did not want to put Wahisietel out by asking for a lodging, Jahaan was in no hurry to leave Nardah; the presence of Wahisietel provided a sense of comfort that Jahaan had been lacking these last few days. He felt impervious to Sliske’s stalking here, knowing that his half-brother could sense his presence and make it known.

So after getting a hearty dinner out of the innkeeper and finding a decent enough room to slumber in, Jahaan took to said room and settled down for an early night.

But before he allowed the pull of tiredness to drag him into the realm of sleep, Jahaan pulled out the translation Wahisietel had given him, lit a dim candle, and began to read…

_ The Zarosians spilled over our front lines, mixing dust with blood. Their fervour for battle was insatiable. We were ordered to retreat at first light, but we knew we wouldn't make it to dawn. We needed the Kharidian gods to grace the battlefield now; morale was low and the last embers of their civilisation were flickering out. I weighed my coin-bag and wondered if it was time to abandon the life of a mercenary, to steal a ship and leave. _

_ Then, we were blinded momentarily by a burning light, and the ground began to rumble. A wind came rolling across the plains like a tidal wave, drowning out the cries of war. The light spread like a flame burning through parchment, opening a tear in the very fabric of the world. From that yawning rift a small army marched forth, the ground quaking beneath their feet. A figure held the portal open, the head of a jackal atop its shoulders. Icthlarin had returned, and he had brought reinforcements. _

_ It was a turning point in the Kharidian-Zarosian war. Icthlarin's warriors crashed into the Zarosian forces. Their commanders were terrifying to behold - mighty sorcerers, whose name sounded foreign to our ears. The army gave them a new name: the 'Stern Judges'. They towered over us by some feet, clad in robes, with a ridge on their foreheads. One in particular made an impression on me, his laugh echoing in my ears and his rictus grin etched into my memory. His name was Sliske, and he appeared and disappeared at will. He was feared by the soldiers and distrusted by his own kind. I felt a kinship with him, despite being awed by his power. Far away, I could make out the Kharidian gods thundering through the enemy, with the Stern Judges at their backs. But Sliske had a different goal, and he moved in other directions. He moved silently; I was barely able to keep track of him as he shifted between shadows. I gave chase, plunging my sword into hapless soldiers in my path. _

_ As I struggled to keep pace with Sliske, I became lost in darkness, the only illumination coming from torches. I fought onwards, and Sliske materialised in a group of enemies. He did not seem to favour his blade; instead, he placed a hand on their armour, and both he and the enemy disappeared. Moments later, Sliske would return, but his opponent would be gone. _

_ Suddenly, I was struck and knocked to the ground, and found myself on my back with a blade at my throat, staring into the wild eyes of a Zarosian scout. Fear washed over me as I heard steel slicing through flesh… but I felt nothing, save a warm trickle of blood on my chest. The body was tossed aside like a doll, and his face peered down at me instead. I shall never forget that grin - like a skull, covered in a veneer of ridged, grey flesh. My eyes locked with Sliske's as he put his finger to his lips. He smiled, and was gone. _

_ In the months that followed, Icthlarin led the charge northwards across the River Elid. I watched in awe as the Stern Judges overpowered their foes. Despite my fascination with Sliske, I found him nigh-impossible to track; one minute I would be watching from afar, the next he would vanish. He built an entourage of spectral wights, shimmering with blacks and purples, converting some of the foes he felled into warriors of his own, undead spirits that returned to serve him. _

_ We finally reached the mountains, and the forces of Zaros made their stand in a narrow pass. Despite their tactical advantage, we were victorious that day. The dust settled and the blood on our swords boiled in the sun. With the majority of the Kharidian Lands reclaimed, Icthlarin demanded that Sliske release his wights to him, so he could guide them to the Underworld. When Sliske refused, Icthlarin took them by force. With a swipe of his hand, Icthlarin obliterated their own ranks. Sliske simply narrowed his eyes and smiled. With a gesture he was gone, and the two never counted one another as a friend from that day. _

_ It was the last I saw of Sliske. _


	4. Reconstruct

By this time, most of the innocent civilians of Lumbridge had been evacuated from their homes, sent as refugees either to Al Kharid or into camps bordering Draynor Village, safe behind the battlelines. That left Lumbridge up for grabs, a blood-soaked playground for the gods and their armies.

Sir Owen, the man with a forehead that just didn’t quit, entered the command centre, saluting Sir Tiffy when he approached him. “Sir.”

“How goes it, Sir Owen?” Sir Tiffy enquired, a teacup sealed to his hands indefinitely.

“I have been confiring with a small selection of trusted mages, priests and divination experts in trying to comprehend the peculiar green substance that has appeared in the ground,” he explained, handing over a collection of scribbled notes and diagrams for reference, which Sir Tiffy examined closely, his monocle doing most of the work. “It’s undoubtedly divine energy, from the gods.”

“Hmm, yes, yes. And what do we know of this divine energy, beyond the fact that it is, indeed, divine?”

“Not much so far,” Ariane admitted. Being a respected member of the Legends’ Guild, Ariane had rightfully earned her place at the side of the highest ranking Saradominist knights, a trusted advisor. “The leading theory is that this is leftover energy from Guthix’s death, and said energy can be harnessed by the gods to increase their power, hence Saradomin has ordered us to collect it from craters scattered around Lumbridge and deliver it to him.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not as easy as that,” Sir Owen regretfully informed, “While our armies outnumber the Zamorakians two to one, I am ashamed to report that their fighting prowess outmatches that of most of our lower ranked knights. The numbers disadvantage has not phased them, and we have been unable to capitalise.”

“I see…” Sir Tiffy took a thoughtful, prolonged sip of his tea. “We need to get that energy to Saradomin, but if we send our boys out to do nothing else, they’ll get slaughtered, what? So, I propose this,” he turned to Sir Owen, instructing, “Split your forces into quarters. I want a quarter to gather the energy, a quarter to act as their bodyguards, and the remaining half to tackle the Zamorakians head on. We need to keep that pressure on them, or else ol’ Zamorak will get all the divine energy himself!”

“Yes sir,” Sir Owen saluted, leaving to complete his orders.

Finishing up the last of his tea, Sir Tiffy offered, “Right, hm, anyone fancy a cuppa?”

In the end, Jahaan had spent a week in that Nardah inn, and he was becoming restless. It wasn’t exactly a tourist destination, Nardah, and he didn’t want to fork out the money to travel to the next biggest city, Pollnivneach.

Briefly, the thought crossed his mind to travel back to Menaphos. Actually, the thought crossed his mind several times, persistent and unrelenting, especially as more days passed.

But in his heart of hearts, he knew he didn’t want to go back.

He didn’t want to go back to The Golden City, to walk through the imposing gates that towered into the clouds and beyond.

He didn’t want to walk through the district of the merchant’s who flogged their wares tirelessly, from silk to golden lamps, so abrasive to outsiders and yet so dependent on their business. Where the streets were perfectly paved and those that resided their wore beautiful robes of blue and gold, woven by a delicate hand.

He didn’t want to pass by the worker’s district, where the less fortunate found themselves trapped in an endless cycle of poverty, reduced to working the clay mines. It was the only part of the city with an altar.

He didn’t want to look up at the Golden Palace in the Imperial District, the district where only the upper echelons of society could take resident. The architecture was at its finest here, polished marble and brilliantly carved stone constructing every building and statue.

He didn’t want to walk across the city’s main plaza; here, the statues of the four lesser deities of the Pantheon - Het, Apmeken, Crondis and Scabaras - were erected.

He didn’t want to end up back in the Port District where the stench of raw fish blended together with salty sea air would coat your lungs and throat in a mere moment. He didn’t want to see any of the children running across the pathways, gawking at the tremendous ships with mouths hung agape.

It had been just over ten years, and he didn’t want to go back. He’d be going back a changed man, someone alien in comparison, near unrecognisable to those who once knew him. He  _ most certainly _ didn’t want to be recognised by anyone who once knew him. It wouldn’t be a welcomed reunion on any account; a lot would love to see his head detached from his shoulders for all he put them through.

Jahaan didn’t want to relive the memories of everything he was back then.

He especially didn’t want to see his uncle, if the man was even still alive. He’d been a fisherman, earning a decent enough living to provide for the two of them. The fact that he’d been a decent enough man to adopt Jahaan from his mother who was content enough to leave him on a church doorstep, or worse, spoke volumes of his character. And yet, Jahaan never showed enough gratitude, never properly repaid the man for all he’d done.

His uncle wasn’t proud of him. That much was obvious. Why would he be? He was left raise a child that learned to talk back as soon as he could speak, ran with the wrong crowds as soon as he was old enough to sneak away, either staying out all night or being dragged home by the authorities, caught in the middle of some petty crime. He taught himself to fight, and fight well, preferring the lessons life threw at him over the ones he could have learned if he’d ever turned up to his studies.

He left home before his fifteenth birthday, and left Menaphos before he turned twenty-five, having not returned since.

However, Jahaan had changed. He knew he had. From the people that came into his life, like Ozan, and from the travels he embarked on, his character had been shaped for the better. Compassion over callousness, honour and loyalty over selfishness, treating people with respect and kindness over dominating them with fear.

But Jahaan did not want his uncle to know this. He wanted his uncle to live and die thinking that his nephew was scum, that he’d never amount to anything, because that’s what Jahaan felt like he deserved. He didn’t want his uncle’s approval, because he’d never earned it.

That’s why he couldn’t go back to Menaphos.

That’s why, the next day, he headed back to Al Kharid, to be the World Guardian, to help the wounded, to be a good person, or as good as anyone can be in this world.

The journey from Nardah on the magic carpet wasn’t much better than the journey going. In fact, he felt significantly worse after landing, having to take a good five minutes sitting at the edge of a sandy pavement before his head stopped spinning. After that, he made for the medical tents.

When Jahaan finally found Ozan, he was perched on the bedside of a young boy, a bandage wrapped around his forehead. His mother was next to them, and they all laughed at something Ozan had said.

Jahaan enjoyed watching the scene; it warmed his heart. So, he patiently waited for his friend to naturally catch his eye. It took a few minutes, but he did so, a wide grin spreading across his face as he excused himself and hurried over to Jahaan. “You’re back!”

“I’m back,” Jahaan confirmed, returning the grin. “Miss me?”

“Like a hole in my heart,” Ozan waved a theatrical hand towards his chest. “How was the desert? Did you end up in Menaphos?”

“No, I decided against it. I went to go see Wahisietel, though.”

“He’s… one of the Mahjarrat, right?”

“Sliske’s half-brother,” Jahaan explained, wincing at the way Ozan reacted to the tainted name. “Don’t worry, he’s nothing like him. He’s not too different from his Ali the Wise persona.”

Ozan was visibly relieved. “That’s good to hear. I’m glad you left when you did - there was a bit of a ruckus not too long after you left.”

The guilt returned to Jahaan in a heartbeat. “Shit. There wasn’t another fight, was there?”

Ozan shook his head. “Fahri calmed them down. They haven’t been back since. I’m hoping by the end of the war they would have forgotten about you.”

“I’m hoping for the same thing,” Jahaan gave a nervous laugh. Then, he rubbed the palms of his hands together and asked, “So, where can I get stuck in?”

The war lasted thirteen bloody weeks, casualties of unfathomable proportions amounting on both sides. The two deities were so well-matched in terms of power that it came down to who could gather the most of Guthix’s remaining energy. That ended up being the deciding factor in their war.

Then, one day, the dust would finally settle.

A warcry, a scream, a blue and gold trimmed cape dancing behind Saradomin as he persisted, relentlessly, in his attack. The divine energy that was being channeled into him flowed through his veins, coursing like electric-charged blood throughout his body. The stream of energy that pooled out of his hand and towards Zamorak was increasing by the second, and he knew that the battle was swayed firmly in his favour. His armies had kept the black knights at bay and had collected more of Guthix’s divine energy than their Zamorakian counterparts; it wouldn’t be long now before he could end his rival once and for all.

With growing confidence, he sent an extra surge towards the red-winged Mahjarrat. Zamorak kept up the defence, but he was straining, his knees buckling under the weight of Saradomin’s attack.

More of Guthix’s power flowed into his staff, and with a blood-thirsty growl, he swung the staff towards Zamorak and shot a heavy burst of energy at him, causing his foe to fall to his knees, gasping for breath.

It was then that Saradomin began to charge.

Narrowing his eyes into slits, shining with anger and desperation, Zamorak threw everything he had back at his blue-skinned rival, every last ounce of power he could summon.

It was enough to halt Saradomin in his tracks and cause the deity to falter, being pushed backwards and struggling under Zamorak’s might.

But it wasn’t enough.

Saradomin countered the attack, using the energy poured him to Zamorak’s detriment, redirecting it back at the Mahjarrat. A stream of red-tinted magic became washed away in a tidal wave of blue, and when the energy made contact with Zamorak’s chest, the deity was thrown backwards, tumbling to the ground. A limp hand clutched at his own chest as he fought for breath, trying not to slip into the realms of unconsciousness. He knew Saradomin would be charging up another attack, a killing blow, but no matter how hard he tried to will his limbs to move, they simply wouldn’t cooperate; blackness danced around the edges of his mind, daring to take over completely.

In a flash, the pink-eyed woman teleported beside her fallen master, pulling him upright, terrified and helpless as he lulled forwards, coughing up blood and bile.

Saradomin’s staff glowed, and in her peripheral vision, she saw this.

Knowing there was no alternative, that her master would die if she did not interfere, she raised a hand to the skies and teleported the two of them away to safety, just as Saradomin made a move to strike.

Clenching his fists, Saradomin roared in frustration, cursing in a tongue long-since abandoned, but the scream of “COWARD” could be heard across all of Lumbridge and beyond.

Once he calmed himself down, Saradomin turned to what was left of his armies, surveyed all that remained of Lumbridge, and raised his staff to the skies, crying out, “Victory is ours!” before teleporting away, leaving rubble, wounded and dead in his wake.

As soon as it had begun, the battle was over.

Saradomin had won, and Fahri and Jahaan got very drunk on Ozan’s dime that night.

Nobody ever really thinks too much about the aftermath of a war, what happens to the regular people whose lives have been turned upside down for a conflict that wasn’t theirs.

The dairy maid whose livestock were slaughtered in the crossfire, her prized dairy cow being her prime source of income, now buried among the rubble. The master farmer to the north, whose entire farm was trampled by the careless foot of a callous deity who cared little for his livelihood. The entire townsworth of people uprooted by the chaos, now trying to locate their houses among the charred remains of Lumbridge. Merchants who had stores in the town now had nowhere to sell, and no-one to sell too. After all, who was interested in a new pickaxe when you don’t even have a roof over your head?

The displaced populous were left to shelter in makeshift camps, soldiers handing out rations and allocating tents. Some remained Al Kharid, allowed refugee status; the kind folk of the city even offered spare rooms to homeless families, if they had room to spare.

Then there was the case of the injured; people don’t stop dying after the battle stops. Lingering injuries may take bad ways, old wounds can reopen if not treated properly, and some people never wake up from comas they’d fallen into.

The rebuilding effort started with the soldiers and knights of Saradomin’s forces - you can say that about them, they didn’t abandon the town like the Zamorakians did. Soon after, men and women who were fortunate enough to survive the war and leave unscathed volunteered to help. Granted, as soon as some of the less injured became mobile, they joined in too. It became quite a well-oiled machine, coordinated by the Duke and some of the higher tiered Saradominist soldiers. Carpenters and construction workers from across Gielinor were contracted by the Duke to aid in the rebuilding, bringing with them supplies and tools. It certainly strained the town’s money purse, but it was necessary.

The first priority was to clear away the rubble, shaping an outline of what the town was before the war, with broken cobbles forming paths that led to half-destroyed buildings. The task was beyond a facing, but there was hope.

Five weeks had passed, and morale was high on the Lumbridge side of the fence. Some people were even able to return to their homes. At least, those on the outskirts… the centre of the town was another matter entirely.

Jahaan and Ozan had remained in Al Kharid after the battle had ceased in order to aid the wounded and help them recover enough to return to Lumbridge, or to find them shelter somewhere in the desert city. The amount of injured soldiers they had taken in stretched their efforts to full capacity, but they just about managed.

It was wrong, and he knew it, but Jahaan couldn’t help feel a twinge of pride at his efforts in the war. It was a change, managing to help people without violence, without having to kill in the process. Ozan, too, had become a completely different man. The children had taken to naming him ‘Ozzy’, and wouldn’t let him go more than a few hours before whining for his attention, either to play little games or to be told a story. Ozan LOVED telling stories, and the children lapped it up like cats with tuna.

Now, Jahaan wasn’t overly fond of children, but even he thought it was borderline adorable.

Jahaan had just finished re-wrapping the wound of a white knight and left to go and check up on the Temple Knight four beds down who had taken an arrow to the knee, but when he heard the loud echo of his rumbling stomach, he remembered that he hadn’t eaten in about eighteen hours.

It had been a LONG night. They were always long nights.

Still, Jahaan thought he could justify taking just five or ten minutes to grab a kebab, maybe hydrate a little, before getting back into it all.

_ Best laid plans and all... _

He was making his way towards the war hospital entrance when someone ran full pelt into his back, sending Jahaan stumbling forwards, almost tripping over his own feet in the process. Instinctively, Jahaan assumed he was being attacked, and thus went for his dagger. However, when he got a good look at who had crashed into him, his fighting instinct relaxed into confusion.

“Gypsy Aris?”

The woman had heavy black circles around her eyes, dark makeup contrasting violently with her pure white hair, pinned back by a violet headband. Age was not her enemy, nor her friend, as while she had wrinkles shaping heer features, her eyes were youthful, full of life and energy, but hidden within them were secrets and histories mere mortals were ignorant to.

These eyes shot up at Jahaan, wild, like a frightened deer. “It’s you! Thank Guthix I am not too late…”

Despite making a living as a fortune teller, Gypsy Aris never could quite handle the concept of being on time. Then again, it was this foible that saved her from being trapped under the Culinaromancer’s spell, for she arrived late to the meeting that he gate-crashed in his attempt to eliminate the Secret Council of Gielinor on his way to world domination.

Sound like a lot to take in? Jahaan had to deal with the fall-out, sending him halfway across the world in order to find each council member’s favourite recipe in order to free them from the trance they were stuck in.

Sometimes adventurers really do get the craziest of assignments.

This was his last encounter of the gypsy; he hadn’t seen her since, for her tent was located in the middle of Varrock Square, and Jahaan would rather eat his own toenails then travel to Varrock.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, chuckling lightly at her flustered state. “The battle’s over.”

“I had a vision!” she proclaimed, loud enough to get some shady looks from passersby. In light of this, he ushered her towards an unoccupied tent as she babbled, “It was you! But you move, by the gods you move so much, I feared you would not be here, but here you are! I have to tell you, it’s important.”

“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Jahaan tried to ease her, motioning for her to sit on the edge of a bed, but she refused.

“We have no time, World Guardian,” she hurriedly explained, “Oh yes, I know you’re the World Guardian. Guthix bestowed you a great honour, a blessing and a curse, as it will all come down to you, Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut. It is how it has always been, but will change. You have always been written, but now revealed. But ah, the souls, they will not rise! It is then your fate will be sealed, the path you can’t ever walk away from. Are you ready to do your duty, World Guardian?”

Jahaan didn’t do a great job of hiding his perplexion.  _ What on Gielinor is she talking about? Why can’t these mystic types ever speak coherently? _

For some reason, in all her power and wisdom, Gypsy Aris didn’t register Jahaan’s confusion, and seemed to be waiting anxiously for an answer.

Hesitantly, Jahaan ventured, “Y-Yes…?”

Gypsy Aris exhaled in relief so deeply that it felt like she was breathing out all her life essence at once, her enter body falling forwards. She stopped moving for a few seconds, and Jahaan genuinely wondered if she’d ACTUALLY somehow let go of her life essence, just deciding to die there and then.

But just as he went to shake her, she bolted back to life, rummaging through her pockets and practically throwing a handful of rune stones at Jahaan. Startled, he scrambled not to let go of them, starting to ask, “What are these f-”

“When you leave here, they will find you. These mortals do not forget,” the word ‘explained’ was tentative at best, but Gypsy Aris tried to convey  _ something  _ to Jahaan. “They will trap you, and you must use these to flee. When the time comes, you will know. Let the magic take you. Then HE will find you, for the souls will not rise, and death will cease to be. You must help him.”

She took Jahaan’s hands in hers, clutching onto them desperately, her eyes burning into his. “When the world speaks, you must listen.”

Suddenly, she released him, straightening up her headband as she said, “I must leave. Remember your purpose, Jahaan.”

And with that, she disappeared in a twirl of golden energy.

Jahaan slumped down onto the bed next to him, his mouth still hung agape as it hand been since she’d started talking. He tried to replay the conversation in his head, but in slow motion, attempting to decipher at least some of what she was going on about.

While Gypsy Aris was certainly a character, unfortunately she was almost always onto something, and her visions rarely lied. She seemed panicked, desperate, and it had something to do with him.

_ How did she know Guthix’s last words? I never told them to anyone… _

That was only one of the many mysteries she had teased in her babbling. Delicately, he toyed with the rune stones in his palms - a law and water rune. Law runes were typically used for teleportation spells, and if water runes were added to them, that would transport him to Ardougne.

_ Why Ardougne? _ He puzzled, the words and phrases of the gypsy’s monologue rattling around his aching head. Tucking the runes away in his pocket, he continued to make his way towards Ali the Kebab Seller, hoping that everything would miraculously make sense on a full stomach.

**Author's Note:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


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